mo' money, mo' imaginary problems

No matter how much I try to convince myself that I want to live like a true bohemian - be more political, recycle more, produce free spirited children with wild hair, drink coffee out of jam jars in my studio, occasionally have a random exhibition of my belly button fluff in Berlin - there is always a little voice in my head which says: 'Fuck it. I want to win the lottery. I want to roll about in my private jet eating gold-plated Mars Bars with Kanye West on a rug made out of OWL BABIES.'

Yesterday I caught myself doing Lottery Maths. This always happens when I'm overdrawn, which I have been ever since Louis started demanding things like food, childcare and shoes. First, I imagine a nice chunky lottery win. This is harder than it seems. Too much and I have to give £50 million to Medicin San Frontiers before I can even start thinking about Mulberry handbags and diamond teeth. Too little and obviously I run out of cash before I can even sign the invisible deeds on the imaginary villa in Tuscany.

My perfect number is about £979,000, which means I don't have to feel guilty about having millionaire status, I can afford a house, a modest holiday home, and there'll be enough left to buy shitloads of Timorous Beasties wallpaper and Swedish designer chandeliers. It terms of social status it'll probably put me up there with a Primrose Hill Yummy Mummy. Along with the tasteful designer labels, I might even be able to afford a spot of drug/self harm hell - enough to write a tedious autobiography about it anyway. (By the way, you must read it - she manages to recount her downward spiral into heroin abuse AND boast about her en-suite at the same time).

Obviously, I won't be sprinkling smack on my Whole Foods quinoa salad and waking up covered in hemp seeds and vomit in time to collect Rollo and Pilates from the Steiner School. Money won't turn my head that much. But I might book myself the odd vigorous session with a Swedish masseur, and of course, I will be buying this and filling it with the finest Chateau Lafitte money can buy.

But then the guilt sets in. I didn't give any money to starving people. My family will still be living in their old houses, plagued by noisy neighbours and leaking taps. There will be recriminations, resentments - people will laugh at my diamond teeth! How will I look tramps in the eye as I sweep past them with my designer baubles? How will I look my friends in the eye as I tell them about that chic little wine bar in Cannes? How will Louis get on at boarding school while I'm skiing? Will he be permanently damaged and start wearing loafers and his collars turned up on his shirts?

It's a good job I never actually buy a lottery ticket.